by Ian Morson
Books were going missing from halls and private rooms, from chests and from shelves. It had started a few weeks ago, when a master teaching the trivium of rhetoric, grammar and logic at Moyses Hall, found that a few classical texts had gone missing. He had thought it trivial at first, as Boethius, Cicero and Priscian could be replaced, albeit at some cost. But when he spoke to a colleague from neighbouring Durham Hall, he discovered that books from a chest there had disappeared too. Soon it became apparent that many more were lost, and the tally grew. Seneca, Donatus, Statius, Juvenal, Lucan, Horace, Ovid, Perseus, Sedulius, Cato, and Macrobius were all added to the growing losses. Then came the greatest blow. Only yesterday, Regent Master Roger Stephens had come to de Bosco pale-faced and in shock, a gash on his forehead seeping blood.
He had arrived earlier than usual at the school he used in the lane beside St Mary’s Church so he could prepare for a lecture on civil law. He wished to consult a reference in the rare twelfth century Commentary of Vacarius on Justinian. It was said that Vacarius had lectured on Roman Law at Oxford about 1149, but was forced by King Stephen to desist. Most of his works had been gathered up and destroyed, so the volume carefully locked away in the Law Schools chest was a rarity. Stephens knew something was amiss when he reached the school’s door to find it ajar. Peering at the lock, he saw that the wooden door frame had been smashed. Heart racing, he pushed the door open, and stepped into the darkened room, calling out as he did so.
‘Hello, who’s there?’
The room was eerily silent, though the regent master sensed a presence.
‘Is there anyone there?’
He wished he had brought a lantern, for now he had to grope his way across the room to the wall cupboard where the cheap tallow candles were kept. As he took a tentative step towards the centre of the room, a grey shadow detached itself from the prevailing gloom. He flinched, and soon found it was not some insubstantial shadow, but someone very solid with a square object held under his arm. The intruder barged into him, knocking him to the floor, and causing him to hit his head on a bench as he fell. For a few moments he was stunned, and when he pushed himself to his knees, he saw the chest of books had been broken open too. Heart pounding, he crawled on his hands and knees to the repository of law books. Peering inside, he instantly knew what had been in the intruder’s arms. The irreplaceable tome by Vacarius was gone.
Chancellor de Bosco had sighed deeply as he listened to Roger Stephens’s report, and had sent the man off to have his wound attended to. Today, his mind was turning the problem over and over. He had to admit that the minor, albeit costly, inconvenience of the loss of copies of Priscian’s Grammar and the like had taken a serious turn. He now knew he would have to do something about it, and thought immediately of the regent master who had caused the downfall of his predecessor, Thomas Bek. De Bosco knew he liked to interfere in cases of murder, and thought that if this book thievery went on, it could well lead to killings. De Bosco needed the man to sort the problem out before it got worse, and someone suffered a worse fate than Roger Stephens. He muttered to himself in a sort of prayer.
‘This time I will have you on my side, Regent Master Falconer.’
Having come to his decision, de Bosco turned his mind to the other problem facing him. He had only this morning received warning that no less a personage than the Chancellor of England was arriving in Oxford tomorrow. He had no idea why Robert Burnell was coming, and why the message only preceded him by a day. In a panic, he had called the two proctors, who formed his executive in keeping order in the university. Both were men he had inherited from his predecessor, and they had been re-elected annually since. Roger Plumpton and Henry de Godfree were like chalk and cheese, as Plumpton, the proctor for the northern nations, was a man who stood by the rules and rarely chanced his arm. De Godfree, on the other hand, had an eye for the main chance, and nearly came a cropper at the same time as Thomas Bek. That he had survived the turmoil spoke volumes about his slippery nature. He was the proctor for the southern nations.
The two nations of the university represented a geographical divide roughly following the course of the River Nene. The northerners, or boreales, therefore included the Scots in their numbers, and the southern nation, or australes, included Marchers, Irishmen, and Welshmen. They were constantly at each others throats, and the proctors had difficulty keeping the students under control. But this had not been what de Bosco wanted to talk to them about. He wanted their opinion on Burnell’s purpose in Oxford. When he had told them who was due to arrive in Oxford, it was surprisingly Plumpton who first spoke up.
‘He is paving the way for the king. We know, do we not, that Edward proposes to finally solve the Welsh problem.’
De Bosco looked his proctor in the eye, anxiety written all over his face. He could hear the triumph in Plumpton’s voice. The northern proctor was a man who had always taken the king’s side, both in the Barons’ War and later. Now he found himself firmly in the right, while his colleague, de Godfree, was a supporter of the reviled Welsh. De Bosco wondered how far Plumpton would be prepared to go in his attack on the Welsh. Deliberately, the chancellor tested his resolve.
‘Have you heard anything, Roger? Does this mean Burnell thinks the university is not maintaining control of its Welshmen?’
Roger Plumpton’s response was suddenly cautious, sensing the chancellor’s prevarication.
‘Not necessarily that, Chancellor, but the king is on his way back from Chester where he was snubbed once again by Llewellyn. It won’t be long before he snuffs out that man’s resistance, and the Welsh nation as a whole. Then we might find that the Welsh clerks in Oxford would be uncontrollable.’
De Godfree snorted in derision, eager to pass on any blame to his opponent.
‘The Welsh clerks are no problem to Edward, Chancellor. It’s Plumpton’s Scots he should be concerned about. Why, Bullock the constable had to crack a few Scottish heads with that sword of his only last week.’
And so the argument had raged, leaving de Bosco with still no clear notion as to why Burnell was coming to Oxford. When the day dawned, he could only hope that the Chancellor of England was not coming to oust the Chancellor of the University.
Chapter Three
Holy Cross Day, 14th September
Falconer could hardly concentrate on his teaching duties that morning in the school. He droned on about Aristotle and logic almost without knowing what he was saying. He had covered the ground so many times before with so many shining faces staring at him, he was afraid he had begun to bore the young men in his class as much he had begun to bore himself. His mind was actually on what he had gleaned from the old Franciscan friar at St Bartholomew’s hospital the other afternoon. Friar Gualo was even older than Aldwyn, and had a memory for patients who had passed through the hospital’s doors years ago, even if he could not recall what he had done the previous day.
‘The eighth or ninth year of the old king’s reign, you say?’
Falconer nodded, unsure if his trip was going to be worth it. Gualo looked closer to death than some of his wards in the leper hospital. But he insisted on racking his brains for Falconer.
‘A woman, you say? I recall the case of a maid who was deaf, dumb, and blind in both eyes. Her parents brought her to the festival of Saint Bartholomew, and she was cured. She skipped away full of joy, perfectly sounding her words. But she was twelve years of age, and so I don’t think she is the one you are seeking.’
‘No, this woman would have been of full age, and perhaps already with child.’
Gualo frowned disapprovingly.
‘She would not have come here merely through being … gravidus.’ He took care to use Latin to avoid any common reference to pregnancy passing his clerical lips. ‘After all, that is hardly an illness. There was a leper maiden who was here three years before St Godric cured her. Her symptoms were horrible apparently, and her frame wasted.’
The old friar shivered at the thought of someone coupling with a leper.
‘But no, she would not do either.’
Falconer sighed, seeing he was getting nowhere. He didn’t even believe in miraculous cures, and was prepared to wager that the examples given came about for one of two reasons. Either the sick person was ill through grief or despair, and was cured through a dose of hope, or the person was an astute beggar feigning illness in the first place. He was about to thank the old monk and leave, when Gualo bucked up, apparently recalling a matter long forgotten.
‘Could the woman have been carrying out works of mercy here, rather than being a patient? Some women not of gentle birth but still fit for the purpose watched over the sick, and others attended to the household affairs. I do recall a story about a Welsh woman who …’ Suddenly, Gualo’s eyes clouded over. ‘But then I would be talking out of turn.’
Falconer felt as though he was getting somewhere at last, and encouraged the friar to tell his tale, even if it were unpleasant.
‘Friar Gualo, this is important to me. Please tell me what you know, and it will go no further.’
The old man squinted at him, and huffed.
‘It was only a tale told in the friary, you understand, between young postulants who should have known better.’
With a sudden shock of surprise, Falconer guessed that one of those postulants was probably Gualo himself. The friar was old enough to have been a postulant fifty years ago. He restrained a smile, imagining the old man as a youth newly entering a celibate life, and revelling in a little salacious chatter. He held his breath, and finally the old man continued.
‘It concerned a woman — Welsh, as I said — of uncertain background, and a young Franciscan friar newly arrived in Oxford. He was an Italian, it was said, by the name of Alberoni. It was soon after the Grey Friars had arrived in the town, and before the friary was built. We were lodging in St Ebbe’s. The Italian took a fancy to assisting at the hospital. The woman — well, girl really — kept the rooms clean and was entranced by the Italian. One thing …’ He coughed. ‘… led to another, and she grew in size till she could hide it no more. In fact, I believe the child was ripped out of her like Julius Caesar is said to have been. When the master of the hospital learned of the situation, he had the child sent to his mother’s own land. To an island where there was another Augustinian community, and where the boy could be kept an eye on.’
Falconer couldn’t believe his ears. Depending on the name of the community, this could be the first morsel of information about his own birth.
‘The woman … she died?’
Just as Friar Gualo was about to reply, a young Franciscan had appeared in the little office where they were sitting together. He was of a severe demeanour with a sour face as if he had been sucking on a sponge soaked in vinegar. His voice was harsh and piping, as if it had not yet properly broken.
‘Brother, it is time to return to the friary. Our brothers require your presence for prayer.’
Gualo sighed, obviously used to this fervent young man acting as his keeper.
‘Yes, yes, Fulbert. I am coming. I just have to tell Master Falconer …’
Fulbert’s pitiless gaze latched on to Gualo, stopping the words from emerging.
‘I am sure the regent master will understand your need to share your prayers with our community.’
The young man switched his gaze to Falconer, plastering a rictus of a smile on his face. Creakily, Gualo rose to his feet, following Fulbert like some tame dog. Falconer threw a question the old man’s way as he passed.
‘The island. What was its name?’
‘Bardsey. They say that King Arthur is buried there, waiting to be woken. It is also the island of twenty thousand saints.’
Falconer was still turning over in the back of his mind the possibility that he had found the link to his birth, when the time came to move his lesson with his students on to sophisma. Needing to concentrate more, he shelved his other thoughts. Some of his pupils loved solving the riddle that was a sophist statement; others found it incomprehensible. Falconer confessed himself as being in the first camp. It was all a matter of liking the riddle for its own sake, and he often likened his predilection for murder cases to sophistry. He gave the students one of his favourite sentences to puzzle over.
‘Consider this sophisma.’
He carefully chalked on the slate board, “All men are donkeys or men and donkeys are donkeys.” He carefully did not say the words, so as not to give them any particular inflection. Then he eyed his audience, and maliciously latched on to a youth he knew disdained such theoretical arguments.
‘Geoffrey Westhalf, give me a proof of the sentence’s truth, and also a disproof.’
The pinch-faced boy grimaced, as all his contemporaries’ eyes arrowed in on his discomfort. But he was not to be caught so easily, and sneered.
‘The sentence is a copulative sentence each part of which is true. “All men are donkeys or men,” and “Donkeys are donkeys.”
Falconer smiled, and he heard a stirring from the brighter boys in his flock. He chose Peter Mithian, who was one of his own boarders at Aristotle’s Hall.
‘What’s wrong with that statement, Peter?’
Eager to please his mentor, Mithian grinned widely, his youthful face lighting up.
‘Nothing is wrong with what Westhalf said, master, but it is only half the truth.’ He looked round for approbation of his pun on the other boy’s name. Falconer sternly motioned for him to continue, so he did.
‘As well as being conjunctive, the sentence can also be disjunctive, and therefore incorrect.’
Westhalf screwed up his face, making it even more weasel-like.
‘How can a sentence be both true and untrue? That is stupid.’
Glad to have trapped his victim, Mithian continued.
‘It can also be read as two different, incorrect statements. “All men are donkeys,” and “Men and donkey are donkeys.”’ He paused for effect, and added a rider. ‘Though in Westhalf’s case, I see a man who is a donkey.’
Falconer spent some time calming down the class, and regretted his levity, seeing that he and Peter Mithian had both just made an enemy of Geoffrey Westhalf.
*
Robert Burnell’s arrival in Oxford was typically discreet. He rode through the North Gate accompanied only by one other person. The Chancellor of England was dressed as usual in modest black robes and hose, and was so unmemorable that the watchman on the gate took more notice of his companion. He was a dark-skinned man with a greasy, black mane of hair, who sat on his horse as though born in the saddle. This companion of Burnell’s swivelled his gaze around constantly as if distrusting anyone in the crowd around his master. His eyes, when they alighted on Peter Kepeharm, the watchman at the North Gate, were cold, black pools reflecting no light. Kepeharm blinked, and looked away to deal with a small troupe of players and acrobats who were entering the gate pushing a cart loaded with their possessions. The gatekeeper stopped them, and demanded to know their business, though it was self-evident from the garish masks and brightly painted juggler’s clubs on the cart. Their leader, John Peper by name, sighed and, used to being harassed by officialdom, began to explain.
Burnell and his servant rode on oblivious to the scene taking place behind them. He knew where the man he sought resided and jogged steadily down to Carfax. From there, he turned east along the High Street towards St Mary’s Church. William de Bosco lodged in a house called Glassen, or Aula Vitrea, because of its extravagant glazed windows. It was located conveniently for the chancellor at the end of Schools Street, where the clerks studied, and behind St Mary’s Church, where de Bosco and his predecessors held chancellor’s courts to manage the affairs of the university. The passage of the quiet, little man and his swarthy servant drew little attention, and so Burnell was able to surprise William de Bosco in his lair.
*
Brother Aldwyn had searched the records of Bartlemas hospital, but had found no reference to a female inmate who could have been the person William Fal
coner was looking for. Young girls who had had hysterical fits and miraculous cures of paralysed old women beyond child-bearing age cropped up regularly. But he had found an oblique reference to an incident with a serving girl at the hospital. A terse note in the relevant year told of an operation ‘such as Caesar’s mother suffered’, but with no report as to the outcome. Aldwyn felt vaguely disturbed, as it reminded him of a prediction in Merlin’s prophecies. He hurried over to his precious copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book to be sure of his recollection. He scanned past the passage he had quoted to Falconer earlier about the red dragon and the white. And there it was.
‘It shall rain a shower of blood, and a raging famine shall afflict mankind. When these things happen, the red one shall be grieved; but when his fatigue is over, shall grow strong. Then shall mis-fortunes hasten upon the white one, and the buildings of his gardens shall be pulled down. Seven that sway the sceptre shall be killed, one of whom shall become a saint. The wombs of mothers shall be ripped up, and infants born premature.’
It did not please him one bit that these predictions presaged the possible rise of the red dragon, or Llewellyn. There were too many evils accompanying it to excite an old man, even a true born Welshman. But he resolved to advise Falconer of his discovery. And of his fears. He gathered up Geoffrey’s tome, tucked it under his arm, and hurried across the open marshland on which the abbey stood, making his way towards Oxford.
*
The door of William de Bosco’s solar opened, and Inkpen, his servant, poked his head round. De Bosco looked up from the documents he was examining.
‘Is Master Falconer here already?’
He was a little surprised. He had only just asked Inkpen to find the regent master and get him to come to Aula Vitrea. The manservant shook his head.
‘No, master, I left a message at Aristotle’s Hall but he has not yet arrived. However, there is a man here to see you. I told him you were busy, but he insisted, and said his name was Barnwell, or something similar. He can’t be anyone important for he is dressed like a regent master, and I don’t know the name. Do you, chancellor?’
